


Dreamer

by NimbusLlewelyn



Series: Children of the Stars [4]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Amavikka, Burns are painful and disgusting, Challenges, Dragons, Dreams vs. Reality, Ekkreth is (sometimes) kind, Ekkreth is a little shit, Folklore, Force Sensitivity (Star Wars), Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Krayt Dragons (Star Wars), Leia is much more sensible than her parent, Psychic Abilities, Rachel's annoyed, Rachel's rolling with it, Shapeshifting, Tatooine Folklore (Star Wars), Tatooine Slave Culture (Star Wars), Trickster Gods, Tricksters, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29044530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimbusLlewelyn/pseuds/NimbusLlewelyn
Summary: The lines between dreams and reality, between truth and madness, are thin ones, especially for a powerful psychic. And even more especially for a powerful psychic on Tatooine.Or, Rachel isn't certain what's real and what's not, but she is absolutely certain that either her subconscious hates her, or Ekkreth is even more of a little shit than they are in the stories. (These two things are not mutually exclusive).
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Rachel Summers, Anakin Skywalker & Shmi Skywalker, Shmi Skywalker & Rachel Summers
Series: Children of the Stars [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2102040
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Dreamer

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, full credit and thanks to Fialleril for the Tatooine folklore and open permission to play in/meddle with her sandbox of said folklore.

Rachel stands in the desert under the night sky, cold as frost and clear as glass. She sees with the clarity of waking eyes, and yet, she is asleep.

She is sure of this, as sure as she can reasonably be. The Professor’s training did touch on distinguishing between dreams and reality, something especially important for psychics to understand. However, his time had been short, and the world had had harder lessons for her to learn.

Besides, she is now on another world, far away from anyone or anything she ever knew before. On one level, this is a blessing, a new beginning. On another, it is both profoundly lonely and gravely inconvenient.

On this other world, one that is so different from her own (well, what she remembers of her own), while being exactly the same in some heart-breaking ways, there is a… strangeness. If she were mystically inclined, she would say it is a place of power, of potential that far belies its appearance, of endings and beginnings, shifting as often as the dunes of the endless desert.

She is not mystically inclined, however. Yes, she is known as a Witch, and sometimes plays up to that, but she isn’t really mystical, not in the way that the great psychics of the galaxy, the legendary and semi-mythical Jedi Knights, are supposed to be. They carry impossible power in one hand, and incalculable wisdom in the other… if you believe the stories.

Rachel doesn’t, not entirely. Oh, she believes that the Jedi probably exist, and some of the powers spoken of sound like exaggerated descriptions of familiar abilities. Besides, even if she hadn’t parsed some of the stories, she’d know.

Sometimes, she senses psychics passing by. Almost none of them are have more than a teaspoon of potential, much less power, and she doubts any of them know what they have – they tend to be better pilots, more persuasive merchants, and, of course, more elusive slaves. But little more. However, there are exceptions. Well. There is one possible exception, and one glaring exception.

The possible exception is Shmi. She has a kind of subtle awareness, an enhancement on her natural gift for empathy, and a slave’s talent for evading view that Rachel suspects (but does not know for sure) is enhanced. She also tends to be better able at picking out two people in particular than she should be. Those people are Rachel and the other exception, the glaring and blatant one, who shines like a star when you know what to look for – Anakin.

Anakin, Rachel suspects, is potentially the single most powerful psychic she has ever known. Perhaps only her first mother’s powers compare – though she remembers very little of her first mother, and the judgement is necessarily skewed by the fact that even in the latest memories she had, she was a small child and relatively new to her powers.

However, she has much clearer memories of Professor Xavier, considered by many to be one of the greatest psychics ever to live. She remembers him telling her that, like her mother, she will surpass him. For power, perhaps, she thinks. But for wisdom, for enduring faith and hope in the face of a world ruled by the faithless and inhabited by the hopeless, for being a symbol of peace in a time of endless war? No. No, she does not think she can do that. She does not want to even try. She will cultivate a little hope where she can, for herself and others, because hope is precious. But as she knows from bitter experience, you cannot live on hope alone. Even dreams must eventually die.

Still, for power… Anakin will certainly surpass him. He may even surpass her – though she has to admit, she isn’t entirely sure how strong she is. She may once have had the full extent of her abilities revealed to her, but if she has, does not remember, and she is not minded to test it. From what she does know for certain about how strong she is, and what else she can infer, a true test of her abilities unconstrained could be devastating.

Of course, everyone’s power has limits. Hers, her first mother’s, the Professor’s, and Anakin’s too – never mind the Jedi, whatever they were really like. She learned _that_ lesson a long, long time ago.

“He needs to be taught,” she says softly, sadly, to herself.

“And you are meant to teach him.”

She whirls and comes face to face with an impossible figure.

“You are not real,” Rachel says with absolute certainty.

“I am very real,” the figure counters. They are a person, apparently a woman (though in the mindscape, an old lesson whispers, appearances mean nothing). They may be real – as far as she can tell without touching them, they are real – but they are also impossible.

Certainty becomes doubt. Doubt becomes confusion. As she stares at the person’s form, doubt becomes both hurt, and hurt becomes a low, simmering anger. She narrows her eyes at the person who very much appears as if they are (but nevertheless cannot be) Jean Grey.

“You are not my mother,” she says, her heart aching.

“And you are not my child,” the Not-Mother replies.

“Then why did you take that form?” Rachel half-demands.

“Because to you, she represents freedom. To you… and many, many others.”

Rachel is sceptical and voices that scepticism. Laughter dances in her Not-Mother’s eyes.

“Well, that isn’t the _only_ reason,” the Not-Mother concedes. “Another is that she is your first mother, and a mother is supposed to guide. Your second mother is one of mine, and her form is her own. I will not claim it.”

“One of yours,” Rachel says, and frowns. “Who are you?”

“I am a Child of the Mother,” the Not-Mother says.

“So are all of us, if I understand the stories correctly,” Rachel retorts, recognising the refrain from Grandmother’s stories, and gets a crooked smile.

“You do,” the Not-Mother says, and there’s a hint of approval there. “You are… and you are not.”

Rachel swallows a stab of hurt at that, and frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You are a Child of the Mother,” the Not-Mother says, sounding almost contemplative. “But you are… from another branch of the family, you might say.”

Rachel looks puzzled, then her eyes widen in understanding. “I’m not from Tatooine,” she says.

That gets a laugh, one that reaches into Rachel’s heart and squeezes, because it’s so painfully familiar, clear and without the fading of old memories.

“Little one, the Mother is not limited to Tatooine,” the Not-Mother says, and this time, the voice sounds surprisingly kind. “Nor is this branch of the family.” A hand reaches up and gently caresses Rachel’s cheek. “But you… you come from _so_ far away,” the Not-Mother says, and they sound almost awed by the scale of it.

“How did I come here?” Rachel asks. “Why?”

The Not-Mother shrugs. “I do not know,” they admit. “The actions of my elders are a mystery, even to me.”

Rachel frowns. “Can you guess?”

“You are a Child of the Stars, little one,” the Not-Mother says. “A child of other stars, who was adopted into these stars for a purpose beyond the scope of my understanding. However, if I was to speculate…” The Not-Mother looks contemplative. “… I would imagine that your purpose and mine are not so different.”

Rachel’s frown deepens. “Who are you?”

“I have left you plenty of clues, little one,” the Not-Mother says, with a mysterious sense of amusement. “Who do you think I am?”

Rachel thinks, going through the tales she has been told, the stories of slaves and freedom, of cruel masters deceived by the Sky-Walker. The stories of… her eyes widen.

“Ekkreth,” she breathes.

The Trickster smiles.

Rachel stares in disbelief. This must be a dream of some kind; real, or a constructed mind-trap, she does not know. She tries to force herself awake, but it does not work. She tries again, and still does not succeed.

“Why can’t I wake?” she asks.

“Who says that you are asleep?” Ekkreth counters.

Rachel’s eyes narrow, and she closes her eyes, breathing in the desert air. Cold, dry, and crisp, it can refresh the cautious in one moment, and while stealing the last drops of water from the flesh of the unwary in the next, flensing their corpses to the bone. Like many things about Tatooine, it contains both life and death, healing and destruction, in perfect and unforgiving balance. To gain one, one must be careful to choose right, not merely to avoid choosing wrong.

She opens her eyes once more and looks Ekkreth in their borrowed emerald eyes.

“Then what do you want with me, Trickster?” she asks. “And what does it have to do with Anakin?”

“You were brought here for a purpose,” Ekkreth says. “I do not know what that purpose is. But the purpose of the young Sky-Walker… that, I do know something about.”

“He is one of yours,” Rachel says, understanding.

Ekkreth smiles. “Yes,” they say fondly, and again, it is genuine fondness. Then, their expression fades into unaccustomed solemnity. “The young Sky-Walker’s purpose is vast. A hand far greater than mine is upon him, as one is upon you.”

Rachel blinks at this, but does not get the chance to enquire further, as Ekkreth’s countenance does not invite questions, but careful attention.

“Adherents of both the Light and the Dark have tried to describe it and constrain it with words, but it is beyond such a simple understanding,” they say. “They see a glimpse the whole, and assume it has only one face, when in fact it has many faces, just as I do.”

Rachel frowns as she mulls this over, sitting down cross-legged on the possibly-possibly-not real sand. Ekkreth matches her pose, and again, there is a brief stabbing feeling of pain, combined with a flash of memory, of her mother teaching her how to do this, how to begin to meditate. She welcomes it, pain and memory, as the two are inextricably bound together around flash of happiness at something else regained.

“You said that you think our purposes are similar,” she says slowly. “And your purpose… your purpose is to guide. To show the way to freedom.”

Ekkreth’s expression does not change, but this time, there is approval and fierce pride in their eyes and the line of their borrowed mouth. They know what they are and they embrace every part of it.

“You’re saying that I’m meant to guide Anakin,” Rachel concludes.

“He has much to learn,” Ekkreth says, which is a tacit confirmation, but suggestive of a mysterious more. This, Rachel thinks a little sourly, is not exactly surprising considering who and what she is talking to. Assuming, once again, that this is not a dream. Then again, her subconscious is either brutally direct or maddeningly elusive, so that would still be in character.

They stand, and as they do, they shimmer and flicker like sunlight on the sand; as they do, a woman with red hair getting to her feet becomes a bird with red feathers rising into the air. They flutter back down to land on the top of the staff that Rachel had not realised she was carrying, the one that perhaps is only there because she subconsciously expects it to be. They give her a piercing look.

 _You have much to learn, too,_ they continue. _Both to fulfil your brother’s purpose and your own. There are things that you have forgotten, and things that you do not yet know. Both will come in time._

“For someone who emphasises how far this is beyond them, you seem very certain of this,” Rachel says dryly, and Ekkreth chitters in the laughter of birds.

 _You are not one of mine,_ they say. _You are not quite Amavikka._ There is a significant pause, as beady dark eyes meet hers. _Not yet._ Rachel startles a little, and they let out another chitter of amusement, like a chuckle. _But_ _you are close enough._

Ekkreth flutters into the air, and a smile that Rachel cannot restrain emerges, even as part of her is aggravated by yet another non-answer. She watches Ekkreth as they circle overhead.

 _Come_ , the Trickster commands. _There are things that you must earn… if you can._

“How am I going to do that?” Rachel asks.

_You will know, when the time is right. Or you will not._

Ekkreth swoops off into the desert, and Rachel, seeing no alternative, follows.

The journey is a long one, the endless sea of dunes and shadows flowing under the light of moon and stars. Rachel doesn’t know whether it takes hours, days, or even weeks; time is meaningless where she is, with only duration mattering. All that matters is ensuring that her footing is sure, her resolve is strong, and that she keeps the flickering red form of Ekkreth in sight, as the Tricksters darts through the night sky like a fading spark on the breeze.

Eventually, the sand becomes stone, and the stone becomes a treacherous path through the foothills of far-off mountains. Rachel has glimpsed these mountains before, on her more distant travels, but she has never been to them. Until now, there has been no point – such an expedition would require extensive supply, and a wariness of Tusken Tribes who, unlike some of their nearer neighbours, haven’t become grudgingly accustomed to their neighbours or respectful of her and her power. While she can fight Tuskens if she has to (and she has, from time to time), she prefers not to.

The ones nearer Mos Espa have come to respect her power, to respect _her_ , as well as her willingness not to trespass too much on their lands or their hospitality – they know that she is just passing through, and that if there is need of her particular services, she is willing to help. She has even mediated one or two disputes with the moisture farmers (though that usually involves just allowing the farmers to leave with their valuables and their lives).

In return, they tend to give her a wide berth or a friendly (if wary) greeting as they pass. She’s even picked up a little staff-fighting from them (mostly because they were curious on what she actually used her staff for, other than walking – up until that point, the answer had been either ‘a symbol of authority’ or, frankly, ‘not much’). They know that she is dangerous, and she knows that they can be a significant annoyance.

However, that is a relationship that has built up over time, thanks to both sides taking things from meeting to meeting and carefully not over-thinking it. She has neither the time, nor, frankly, the inclination to go and develop such relationships with tribes in a place where she has no reason to go or get involved, just as she has had no reason to go to the mountains.

Until now, it seems.

She hikes up the foothills, muscles suddenly burning with effort, and curses both the realism of dreams and the incorrigible nature of tricksters everywhere. Ekkreth clearly hears her. Ekkreth just as clearly finds it amusing.

“How much further?” she finally demands, as she stops to catch her breath, which is beginning to rasp in her throat.

 _You are nearly there, Starchild,_ Ekkreth replies. _Your test awaits._

Then, they flutter up and around the corner, leaving her to consider this mysterious remark.

“For future reference,” she says, mostly to herself, but more generally in the hope that Ekkreth will hear her. “If this is my subconscious, I hate me. Also, for future reference, if this is just you? Then I hate you. I hope you know that.”

The wind whistles around her on the high peaks. There may, or may not, be the chitter of bird-like laughter.

Rachel sighs in disgust and stands, stalking around the corner, ready for whatever may await her.

As it turns out, the path has emerged onto a small plateau, ending in what was once a vast cave – no, a cavern – mouth, now filled by a significant rock-fall from further up the mountain. Ekkreth is barely visible as a reddish blur, perched on one of the higher rocks.

“All right,” Rachel says, grounding her staff and folding her arms. “Now what?”

For a few moments, there is nothing. Then there is a great rumble, which grows into a roar, and a gale of wind like a hurricane as Rachel realises something very important.

That is _not_ a rock-fall.

Vast wings unfurl and pound at the air as a gigantic Krayt Dragon rears up and splits the night sky with a roar like the breaking of mountains, before landing on taloned feet the size of yachts in an impact that shakes the plateau. It is, Rachel thinks dazedly, as she struggles to her feet in the face of gale, earthquake, and a sound so fundamental as to be almost solid, far larger than any of those that she has sensed or seen before.

Those had ‘merely’ been the sand-swimming dragons of the Great Dune Sea. She had heard stories that some, a very rare few, had sought out the heavens, climbed the mountains, and grown wings to learn how to fly. She had thought that they were just that – stories.

Apparently, she was wrong.

Nevertheless, she stands her ground, straight and tall, as a head the size of a small spaceship lowers itself down on a neck like a ridge-line, eyes the size market stalls gleaming golden as they focus entirely on her. From between fangs like spears, a faint but very definite glow emerges. So, she thinks, they apparently breathe fire, too.

She narrows her eyes, a racing heart and a sensation of primal terror mingling with frustration and outrage – outrage at being jerked around, at being tricked by Ekkreth, at not even knowing what was truly going on. She is _damned_ if she is going to back down to some overgrown lizard. She may not have faced one like this, but she has discouraged Krayt dragons before, and if needs be, _she will do it again._

She slams her staff into the ground, focusing her power through it, hard enough to match the impact of the dragon’s feet. The plateau shakes in response, as the stone beneath her feet cracks like a gunshot, exploding into dust and shards. Some of them slice even through her dress to cut her legs. She does not care, drawing on her power as deeply as she ever has on Tatooine, and levelling her staff, its carvings aglow, her eyes ablaze with starlight so bright that it lights up the plateau like the coming of the dawn.

“Enough,” she says, in a voice like the roll of thunder and the hunting scream of a diving falcon. “I am Rachel Summers, Witch of Mos Espa. I am Rachel Summers, Last of the X-Men. I am Rachel Summers, daughter of Jean Grey, daughter of Scott Summers, daughter of Shmi Skywalker. And I am tired of these games. Show yourself, Ekkreth! Show me what you want with me, or I walk away, right now! And so help me, if I have to go with your pet dragon to do so, I will!”

There is silence. Then, the dragon snorts, unleashing a brief gust of hot, dry wind.

 _Your judgement was correct, parent,_ a deep and gravelly female voice says. _She has fire indeed._

If stone could speak as it cracked in the sun, Rachel thinks, this is the voice it would have. Though she doubts that the voice would be quite so… amused. Or, for that matter, pleased.

Then, she realises that this is _not_ Ekkreth’s mental voice. As she does, her memory of Tatooine’s lore flips a card, rather insistently reminding her of something very important. Namely, that the Amavikka are not Ekkreth’s only children.

Rachel’s jaw drops as Leia, the Mighty One, eldest daughter of Ekkreth, towers over her and regards her with what can be best described as amused respect, shaded with tolerance – though that tolerance, Rachel suspects, will only go so far. She has stood up for herself and demonstrated both strength and courage, yes, and that is worthy of respect. But she also suspects that it would be a very bad idea to do something that might threaten the Great Dragon’s pride.

 _Yes, you have fire in you,_ Leia continues. _More than you realise._ Her tone turns almost… concerned. _More, I think, than you can imagine._ She gives Rachel what seems to be a considering look, then turns to look down at Ekkreth, who has once again assumed the form of Jean Grey and is sitting (to no one’s great surprise) on their daughter’s nearest talon. _Parent,_ she says seriously. _This is an affair of our elders, of purposes far beyond our own. Are you sure we should involve ourselves?_

“If our elders did not wish us to be involved, they would never have sent her here,” Ekkreth says plainly, expression one of unaccustomed solemnity. “They would not have had one Child of the Stars born among us, among our people, in the first place.”

 _This is true,_ Leia allows.

“She has become his sister,” Ekkreth continues. “She is becoming one of our people. And our people will be as caught up in this purpose as any, if not far more.” They look significantly at Rachel, then up at their daughter. “This _is_ our affair, daughter.” They smirk and let out a wicked little laugh. “Besides. It’s not like any of them are here to object.”

 _Very well,_ Leia says.

Rachel folds her arms. “I’m involved in this too, you know,” she says. “I’m meant to guide Anakin. To protect him. And I will.” She looks Ekkreth, then up at Leia. “I was brought here for a reason – a test. I think I’ve passed.”

 _You do, do you?_ Leia asks, and there’s the amusement again.

“Since we’re not fighting, yes,” Rachel says dryly.

Another snort. This, Rachel realises, seems to be the Mighty One’s version of laughter.

 _True,_ Leia agrees. _You showed courage, strength, and resolve._

“I was willing to turn back,” Rachel points out.

 _Your resolve was to a path of your own choosing,_ Leia says. _You proved that you have enough courage, enough fire, to light your own way, and the strength to stay your course._

She leans down again, laying her great head flat on the ground.

 _I will help you, and the young Sky-Walker. I will not make you more than_ what _you are. But I will help you make yourselves more of_ who _you are. You have shown your quality, and you have earned the chance. The means are within reach…_

She opens jaws like a cave entrance; a forest of enormous white fangs and a sinuous red tongue, lit by a glowing internal furnace.

_… if you are willing to take them._

At first, Rachel isn’t sure what she means. Then, deep in the furnace, at the back of the dragon’s throat, she sees two small, round objects gleaming brighter than the flames around them, even brighter than the stars above.

“Oh, you have to be _kidding_ me,” Rachel breathes, incredulous.

“She isn’t,” Ekkreth says. “I am the Trickster. She is not.”

Their words are solemn, though there’s a faint twitch of amusement at the corners of their borrowed mouth.

“I know,” Rachel mutters irritably. “This feels like one of your jokes. And I’m _still_ not sure if I’m not just dreaming.”

She takes a deep breath.

“But if I am, then there’s no harm in doing this,” she says. “And if I’m not… well. It’s for Anakin. So be it.” She strolls to one side, sufficient to be visible to one of Leia’s eyes. “Though I promise you right now, if you swallow me, I don’t care who or what you are – I will give you _terminal_ indigestion.”

There is another snort of amusement, and a snicker from Ekkreth that sounds remarkably like the chittering laugh of their bird shape, but nothing else.

Rachel closes her eyes, then carefully slips between Leia’s fangs, into her open mouth, before slowly and steadily treading down the cave path of the dragon’s tongue.

The distance isn’t so far, in real terms, hardly more than a stroll from the back of Watto’s shop to cross the street and back. However, while walking the streets of Mos Espa has many dangers, being accidentally swallowed is not one of them. Of those predatory beings that do walk those streets, none is like this – an apex predator without equal, built like a colossus and thrumming with primordial power. And Rachel is merrily traipsing right down her gullet.

Well, not traipsing. Or down. _Definitely_ not down.

“The things I do for my brother,” she grumbles, checking her footing again, trying to ignore her increasing sweat as the heat increases. She has reached the end of the tongue. As she does, she looks forward. There, at the back of Leia’s throat, at the heart of the permanent oven caused by her internal furnaces, are two glowing stones, burning with white-heat.

Accordingly, Rachel reaches out with her telekinesis. But as she does, her grip seems to slide off them. She tries again. The same result. Once more, and there is failure for a third time. Moreover, she realises that it slides off before it gets all that close. She stares hard at them, then with a thought, she carefully slices off a piece of her cloak, one of the thicker parts, taking it in her hands and weighing it up.

Many years later, she will reflect that this only makes sense: she stands among gods and spirits, in the heart of the very oldest of stories. As with all stories, this one teaches a lesson.

No one can touch fire without getting burnt.

Gritting her teeth, she lunges for the stones, grabbing them both in muffled hands. Her every instinct immediately tells her to let go, but she does not. Rachel Summers has not survived as long as she has by giving in to instinct. Or, for that matter, knowing when to give up.

The muffling is limited, sufficient only that her flesh sears rather melting outright, lasting only for a moment, but a moment is enough. With an agonised thought, she directs all her desire to get out in a telekinetic blast that hurls her backwards out of Leia’s mouth like a cannonball. She flies through the air for several interminably long moments, her hands roasting, before she lands with a thump, painful even through basic shielding, and another, and more until she rolls to a halt.

Only then does she release the stones, tearing them and the burnt cloth from her flesh with a thought. Her breath hitches at this point as she tries to scream, but she can’t. A moment later, she realises this is because she already is.

It takes her what feels like an eternity to struggle past the tracery of molten agony from her hands, the developing bruises in her back, and the beginnings of a truly monstrous headache. Eventually, though, she manages it, and uses an old Hound trick to deal with the pain.

Shutting off the pain receptors is effective, alarmingly so, and while it risks permanent damage, her Depur had never been particularly concerned with that. Depur rarely are. It also causes the endorphins released to try and deal with the pain to briefly scramble her brains, but that’s a minor problem.

Slowly, she manages to sit up and look at where the stones have rolled. The furious white-hot light has faded from them, leaving only a soft lambent glow. One stone is the green of emeralds and plant-life. The other is the fearsomely clear blue of the desert sky. Each, she realises dazedly, as she picks them up, immediately recognising the one that sings to her soul, matches their intended owner’s eyes perfectly. Perfectly, she thinks, save only for the way in which they are ever so slightly swirled with gold. In the blue, it is the gold of the desert sand. In the green, it is the gold of the rising sun.

 _Well done_ , Leia’s rumbling voice says.

Rachel looks up to see the Mighty One looking down at her. She nods slowly, and receives a nod in return. Respect earned, and respect given.

 _One is for you,_ Leia continues. _One is for you to care for, until the Sky-Walker is ready._ The dragon spreads her wings with a clap like a thunder. _Fare you well, parent. Fare you well, Star-Child._ Then, she pauses, seeming to consider Rachel once more, and then Ekkreth, before considering Rachel once more. She lets out a final snort, and an edge of almost fond amusement enters her voice once more. _Fare you well… little sister._

Then, with a single vast beat of her wings, she explodes into the endless night sky, letting out the hunting call of the eldest daughter of Ekkreth. Rachel watches until her dark shape vanishes against the skies, awed in spite of herself.

“Well done,” Ekkreth echoes softly, and Rachel twitches – the Trickster is right next to her. She looks up, and her Not-Mother smiles at her. “You gained more than you expected to, I think,” they say.

“Assuming I’m not dreaming,” Rachel says dryly.

“Assuming that,” Ekkreth says, their tone as dry as the desert itself. It is, Rachel suspects, a knack.

“Then yes, I did,” Rachel says. “Even if I’m not entirely sure what they’re for.”

“You’ll find out, in time,” Ekkreth says.

Rachel looks down at her hands and grimaces. They are not a pretty sight. “It also cost more than I thought it would,” she says.

“So does anything worth striving for,” Ekkreth says, and their absolutely serious tone draws Rachel’s attention.

They take Rachel’s burned hands firmly but carefully, never touching the burn, but not letting go, either, and gently place a stone in the centre of each burn. Rachel braces herself, even knowing that she blocked off the pain receptors, but there is no distant spasm. Instead, there is just a strange, soothing warmth, as both stones sing to her.

“So,” continues Ekkreth. “Does the _only_ thing worth striving for.”

She reaches up and takes the back of Rachel’s head, gently kissing her brow.

“Sleep well, Star-Child,” they say.

And Rachel knows no more.

~~~~~~~~~~

When she next awakens, she does so in her bed, in the Skywalker’s home. But she feels the ache in her legs from the walk, the scattered cuts from the shards of stone, the bruises on her back, and the heat from her hands. Yet her aching legs excepted, her injuries feel as if they happened days, if not weeks, ago. As if, in other words, she went on a long trip deep into the desert, was injured on the trip, and returned.

A quick inspection confirms, to her puzzlement, that they look old, too. Finally, she turns to her hands, bracing herself for what scars she may see. It is only then, perversely, that she realises that the heat is warmth, not burning, and the pain she feels is the sensitivity of heat and pressure against new skin: for each hand is clutched around something.

Slowly, she opens them. Each has pink, flaking skin on the palm and up the fingers, but they look… well, they look like hands. More remarkably, in the palm of each is a stone – one emerald green, one sky blue, and both swirled with flecks of gold. 

As she stares at them, she barely registers Shmi walking in. With a mother’s instinct, her eyes immediately land on Rachel’s hands, picking out the burns, and they widen with concern, before tracking back up to meet Rachel’s own.

“What happened?” she asks quietly.

“I’m not sure where to start,” Rachel says, after a moment, voice scratchy, and tries to sit herself up, wincing as she does. Shmi is immediately next to her, helping her sit up and prop herself against a wall, before fetching a small cup of water, bandages, and burn ointment.

“How about the beginning?” she suggests.

And Rachel does.

The telling goes on for some time, especially in light of Rachel’s hesitancy to elaborate on the more otherworldly parts of it (which are most of them). At the end of it, she hesitantly looks up at Shmi.

“Do you believe me?” she asks in a small voice. “I wouldn’t blame you if –”

“I do,” Shmi says, and she does. She trusts her daughter.

Rachel flushes. “Do you believe it happened?” she persists.

Shmi is silent for a long time, tying off the last bandage. Then, she gently picks up the two stones. Both of them sing eagerly to see her, like children wanting to impress a friend’s parents. She can’t hear them the way that Rachel does, but something makes her smile all the same. Then, she looks at her daughter.

“I believe that it happened at least as much as every Ekkreth story,” she says. “That is to say; in every way that matters.”

Rachel flushes again, and once more, it is a pleased flush (if a slightly confused one). In the end, they leave it at that: Rachel notices that her stone sings insistently around her staff, and so has the stone fitted securely near the head of it.

Anakin, meanwhile, does not see his stone, as it is put away for safekeeping by his mother and sister. But they make sure to put it near him, because it comforts him, even though he doesn’t know it is there. It sings to him, softly and gently soothing him to sleep and, like its sibling, waiting for the right time.


End file.
